


Waste

by mothergoose



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Dystopia AU!, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-05
Updated: 2014-09-05
Packaged: 2018-02-16 05:07:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2256963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mothergoose/pseuds/mothergoose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You were just out scavenging for food in the old gas station that the old couple used to run before the world all turned to hell, looking for a little something for Matthew’s birthday (ice cream that maybe hasn’t melted yet in the insulated freezer?) when out of nowhere a crazed woman spots you, the madness leaking from her eyes and you knew you had to run, had to fight."</p><p>Dystopian Gasmask AU!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waste

**Author's Note:**

> This awesome AU is based off of Shieunni’s/Cosumosu's “MadChild!AU” which used to be on one of their other blogs, but has since been taken down. But Dark Nefarious still has the image on their blog, if you would like a link to the original drawing. :D

“A-Al…”

“Matt, Mattie, it’s not what it looks like ok? I was attacked a-and I would never- would never! Please Matt, Matthew, b-believe me!”

You were just out scavenging for food in the old gas station that the old couple used to run before the world all turned to hell, looking for a little something for Matthew’s birthday (ice cream that maybe hasn’t melted yet in the insulated freezer?) when out of nowhere a crazed woman spots you, the madness leaking from her eyes and you knew you had to run, had to fight. The streets were dirt and hard and you ran as fast as you could but she tackled you to the ground, savagely clawing at your neck. The knife you always carry felt heavy but panic made you bury it in her throat and then her chest again and again and before you know it she’s dead and you’re to blame.

Now you feel your hands slippery with blood and your brother and friends are staring at you with a mix of horror and wariness on their faces and you’re trying desperately to show that the woman you killed was an infectee, but no one, no one believes you. They’re all connected somehow, except for Matthew, never Matthew, and they pounce as a group, flailing limbs and hands grabbing, “Don’t let him go!” Someone has rope and an expertise in tying knots and you find yourself face down in the dirt, arms twisted painfully behind you. You scream and beg, pleading with them to listen, pleading for Matthew to listen but no one, one is listening. They’re talking in low secretive tones, as if their words might cause you to snap. Snippets can be caught but that is all.

“What…we do?”

“…can’t kill him, then we’ll be like them, like **him.** ”

“Could…leave him there?”

“…where our shelter is.” Not home anymore, a shelter.

“…legs…from the construction site…Matthew?”

At the sound of your brother’s name, you twist painfully to catch a glimpse of his face. The bandana stretched over his sunburned face does little to conceal the war that is playing across his features, what do I believe? Matthew’s eyes are pained and they shine too brightly in the over bearing sun. There was a time when they were cool as the snow the two of you used to play in, while Mom shoveled the driveway but those are times that are never to come back. You feel like your skin will sear right off if he continues to scrutinize you any longer. You lick your chapped lips, heart thundering.

“Will it be for the best?”

Those violet eyes waver and flicker to the one with red hair, pleading for an answer that can make his decision simple. It is not a simple decision. The other nods and you nearly burst into tears there. You babble, trying to convince them otherwise, retelling your story again, as one of them lifts you onto their shoulder, like a fireman once would. The one with the red hair runs off with two others and those that are left begin walking towards the bridges, a death march in the violently hot sun. You’re still struggling, still fighting, trying to talk to Matthew, to anyone but Matthew only cries softly and says that it’s for the best and that he would never do this to you, not to his brother. The one carrying you tells Matthew that that you are not his brother any longer; you will be a mindless killing machine, devoid of morals. You kick and scream at him saying that it isn’t true, DON’T LIE, but Matthew falls quiet save for soft sniffling and you fall limp, feeling defeated and helpless. 

The bridges are in sight, rusted and dusty, stretching over a sluggish river, clogged with cars, vending machines, trees and bodies. You spot the one with the red hair already on the bridge, a mallet in hand, and with realization you know that you are headed to the Wasteland and that that mallet is for you. The struggle begins again with renewed fervor and angry shouting.

Matthew starts to cry again and you start to cry too; cry because you are helpless to relieve your brother of his suffering, helpless to save yourself, helpless because humanity has fallen and savages roam the earth. It makes your stomach queasy and the thoughts zip, zip, zip through your mind such as _Why will they not believe me? Would I believe myself? Is the ice cream melting?_

By the times you have crossed the bridge, what with its burned out cars and gutted bodies, you have worked yourself into a frenzy, kicking and screaming and pleading for mercy I DON”T WANT TO DIE!! Everyone’s faces are stony however, as stony as the ground and as stony as their hearts. 

They don’t go too far into the Wasteland- _don’t go too far, kid, there are…things there, unfriendly things_ -before they dump you on the ground, like the corpse you will soon be. A crunch from your wrist and the pain that follows makes tears spring to your eyes. The one carrying you flips you on your stomach and, straggling you like a show pony, unties your wrists. You want to struggle and nearly do but there is a knife at your throat-your own you recognize-that forces you to remain still. 

“Take his shoes.” The one on you orders and someone holds your legs in place as they work your boots off and then the socks.

Matthew is shouting at them, crying “What are you doing??” as the one on you strips you of your jacket, the one that Granddad wore when he flew over Nazi Germany, crinkled leather giving way under his fingers. Red answers.

“We need the supplies, Matthew. Jackets, clothes, especially shoes. He won’t need it much longer.” Tears start rolling down your face as the realization that you are going to die here sets in. “Take the jacket, Mattie.” You blubber, face ugly with tears. You twin’s face is a mirror of your own and you wish he would smile again instead of cry. “Take good care of it.” He cries harder at that and lurches for you but another blond boy hold him back and tries to calm him. 

Your wrists are bound to what was once the metal frame of concrete and you know this is it. Will they kill you? You don’t think so but they will leave you to die and that is just as bad, if not more cruel. They steal away your bandana and the stench of ozone and chemicals hit’s your nose with ferocity. It’s harder to breathe this way and you gag on the air around you. 

The sun is beating down on all of them but they have protection from its brutality and you have nothing to shield your face and arms. 

“Let’s do this.” Red says quietly and glances over at Matthew. He hands your brother the mallet and Matthew shakes his head rapidly, over grown, blond hair flying. But Red insists saying, “You have to accept that he isn’t your brother anymore. Its better this way, I think. It’ll help you realize that.” But Matthew refuses and red shrugs, taking up the mallet. You watch in horror as your own brother watches the mallet in Red’s shaking hands, eyes watery. You start crying again and try to scramble away but he is advancing on you and someone has your legs in a vice grip. Matthew’s lips are trembling and his own tears leak out the corners of his eyes.

“A-Al… Al, I love you, please, I really do but Al…Al I-I’m so s-sorry!” Red raises the mallet and your hysteria rises, legs shaking, shouting for this to stop, I’m innocent, INNOCENT!

“Forgive me!” Matthew whispers and the mallet slams down on your thigh and you scream louder than you had ever thought possible, throwing your head back and smacking it hard against the concrete. You scream and writhe in agony, lungs deflating and it’s like you can’t get enough air, there’s no air! Your mouth goes dry from all the heaving your body is doing, screaming and crying and twisting, eyes stretched so wide you are sure you’ll go blind. The pain is so horrendous that it feels as though someone set your legs on fire and through the haze of pain you are sure you can hear Matthew puking nearby. 

After what feels like eternity, the pain dulls a fraction and you feel your body going cold, but that’s not right because the sun is so hot and somewhere in the back of your mind you think, ah! child this is shock. Someone is consoling Matthew who is himself screaming and crying and you wish you could fight to sit up properly but you can’t, not anymore. 

“Let’s go. It’s not safe to stay here long.” Somebody says and they have to physically drag Matthew away. He’s crying and shouting, “I love you, Al! Al, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! I love you, Mama loves you and Dad loves you too! We love you!! Al!” Your body has little air to give but you manage a hoarse, “I love you too, Mattie.” before they depart. You watch them, tearing you and your brother apart, as they become smaller and smaller specks in the distant. 

The sun is hot and your tongue is thick from lack of water. You know that if the ruthless sun and the scavengers don’t kill you, the cold of night will freeze you in your bones and the creatures of the night will feast on you. 

You fight to stay conscious but the shock hasn’t worn off and has instead made your eyelids soooo veeeeeerrrrryyyy hhhheaaaaavvyyyy. The blinding pain has dulled to a throbbing that won’t go away and you swear that you can hear something slithering around and about nearby and you pray that death comes swiftly, despite how afraid you are to die.  
______________________________

“Utter rubbish.” Arthur grumbled and kicked the pile of scraps down, disappointed that he hadn’t yet been able to find the gear that will allow him to fix his stove. Surveying the land, Arthur spots what he guesses is an old curtain and rod-which will look splendid in the living room if it is! 

If one were to look at Arthur, or really anyone in such a setting, they would probably think that he had more pressing matters than what would look nice in his living room, such as his survival. Now, simply because Arthur wants his living room to look nice and presentable does not mean that he is, by any sense of the word, daft. If it came down to non-perishable food or a tea kettle that did not have a crack in it, well, then it was quite simple as to what the man was going to take. You see, Arthur did not just want to survive; he wanted to live even if the world had gone to shit. 

When everything had fallen down around him, he had fallen into a deep despair, as many people had, and he did everything to survive. The Brit had hated it. Hated roaming from one city to another, hated fighting off others to get food or water, hated seeing dead people in the street. Roaming would get him nowhere, he decided early on, and once Arthur laid eyes on the Wasteland, he knew he had found his new home.

Mother Nature had done her worst and buried many of the homes that had once rested there and now all that lingered was a mash-up of material items no one wanted anymore and scraggly little plants. It was a secluded place for many other humans feared the wild wildlife that had sprung up in it as well as the chemical spills that polluted the scape. Yet it also contained all the things that Arthur needed; scrubs that provided medicine and healing properties, supplies from foraged houses, cars and other discarded places that no one entered now. And of course useful chemicals, such as abandoned oxygen tanks, nitrogen tanks, and bottles of hydrofluoric acid in creamy, white ceramic bottles. 

So he set up shop and never left, scrounging around and about for his meals and home. But back to that lovely set of curtains that would go smashing with his coffee table. 

Arthur nimbly side stepped the twisted remains of a fridge, out dated food drawing flies to a feast, and made his way over to his future decorations. Examining them, he noted they were (sadly) not curtains but an old blanket, torn and a stain what with being out in the elements. _I suppose I could sew them up… Do I have enough thread?_ He shrugs and decides to take them anyway. You can never have too many blankets. 

The sky is getting dark but Arthur opts to take one last look around before he is forced back into his small home. Scanning the Wasteland from behind tinted goggles, Arthur spots a boy in the dying rays of the sun. His first thought is to leave the boy; no use adding an extra mouth to feed. The world is hard and chances are the boy is dead. The Brit shakes his head. No, he will leave this poor boy and go home with his curtains.

Arthur gets one foot away from where he once stood and turns sharply on his heel. _Blast._ He thinks to himself. _Some dead boy has got me feeling bad._ He withdraws his pistol and approaches slowly, enjoying the weight of it in his hand. As he approaches, Arthur wonders briefly when his humanity fled from him that he would even consider leaving someone to die. _The boy is dead._ Arthur reminds himself. _If you are not fast, you will be too._

The boy, upon getting closer, is tied by his wrists to what used to be a corner of a gas station, the rope entangled with the metal frame. Dried blood and welts mar the skin around his bound limbs and his leg is swollen and bruised. Clearly the child hasn’t been here long, Arthur thinks. There is only a thin sheen of dust from where Mother Nature has tried to claim the boy for her own. 

_What a shame…_ Arthur ruminates. It’s clear the boy is not very old, maybe 17 at most. Blond hair that is a tad too messy, though Arthur is not one to talk about messy hair. His skin in tinged pink and red but when it fades (if it fades…) the boy will be a lovely brown. _Yes, yes what a shame indeed._

Arthur nearly goes when notices the faint rise and fall of the boy’s chest. This is not a dead boy. He is still breathing, still has a chance. Arthur just has to give it to him. The Briton weighs his options. On one hand, the boy may die anyway and the effort would waste Arthur’s time and resources. If he lives, he would also consume much of Arthur’s resources. And there must be a reason as to why someone would tie a person to rubble in the middle of the Wasteland, presumably to die.   
Carefully, Arthur leans down and opens the other blond’s eyelid. The child has eyes a pretty shade of blue, much like a clear sky but near the edges _-ah, there-_ is the tell-tale purple ring of madness leaking in. _A mad child._

The virus has not made its way through the boy’s system, no symptoms of violence should be appearing yet. To Arthur, it appears that someone jumped the gun and decided to oust the boy before he could get worse. On one hand, the boy could get worse. Arthur really should leave him, even if the Brit knows how to keep the virus at bay. But on the other…

Arthur was lonely. And there was a bit of humanity still left in him, even after seeing his eldest brother tear his second youngest brother apart. Literally. To see a boy, for that is what the person in front of him is, so young die when Arthur could clearly save his life…

The Brit sighed and reached for the knife at his belt, using it to cut the young man free. Without the support of his arms, the boy slumped downwards, leaving a smear of blood from where his head had rested. Arthur braced his arms under the blond’s body and lifted him, noting a sudden whimper of pain from the (heavy!) child in his arms. _Ah… A broken leg, how nasty._

Arthur could see to that as soon as they reached home. It brought a smile to his face as the Brit gracefully headed towards his bungalow. He did not feel so alone in the world now.

**Author's Note:**

> Please I love reviews and criticism is always welcome! :)


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